


The Blood of the Covenant

by somuchforbaggles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Bloodplay, Bottom Dean, Consort Dean Winchester, Homelessness, Implied threats of rape (not by Dean or Cas), M/M, Nonconsensual Kiss, POV Dean, Past Underage Relationship (no sex), Top Castiel, Vampire Castiel, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somuchforbaggles/pseuds/somuchforbaggles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the candlelight, Dean remembers how he came to be a vampire's consort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood of the Covenant

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my first SPN Reversebang :)
> 
> I saw uke-sama's art and prompt and was instantly inspired! They have a gift. 
> 
> [Art post](http://uke-sama-sensei.livejournal.com/4391.html).
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading <3

 

The mosquitos in New Hampshire were a bitch. Their bites drove Dean’s nails to distraction, and always managed to create a dimension in which there was no right side to get out of bed.

However, the bites that Dean woke up with today did not belong to mosquitos.

He stretched, a smile on his face as his skin pulled taut against his bites. That was one of the best parts, feeling them the morning after – and his bites weren’t the only thing he felt. His ass throbbed in that sated, familiar way, and Dean’s smile grew wider. The whole taste of _in the morning_ was delicious, and he never grew tired of it. It was almost as palatable as _the night before_.

The sun peeked through the curtains to greet Dean, but Dean was not so happy to see it. Though it was only a strip, it sought the marks upon his skin and kissed them better. And though it was warm, it was not what made Dean’s blood boil. Its kisses were unwelcome and unfounded; the sun had no right to press its lips on what was not its property.

There was a quiet _schffff_ as the sheets slid off Dean’s skin when he went to pull the blinds, but a quiet voice from the alcove interrupted the whisper of white.

“Let the sun heal them. I drew only the curtains for a reason.”

Dean slunk back to bed and propped himself up on his arm as he stared at Castiel’s alcove with a smirk. The skin on the back of his shoulder sewed itself back up with a shiver, and the top row of teeth marks at his hip half-healed in the rays. In all their six years together, Castiel had only drawn just the curtains once before, and that day currently held the award of Most Orgasms in a Day. Dean wiped the board in his mind clean of yesterday’s _two,_ priming it for today, much like the sun was doing to his body.

“Turn so your torso is towards the window, Dean,” Castiel commanded in that even, low tone of his.

Dean did so, throwing a look over his shoulder to say, “You only wanna see my ass, ya perv.”

Castiel did not deny it, and simply smiled.

The sound of a light spank bounced off the walls, and Dean chuckled when he heard a growl. He rubbed his ass better, hoping to tempt Castiel sooner rather than later, and ran a finger in between his buttocks.

Another growl, this time more frustrated – and all the more pleasing to hear.

Dean stretched out on the bed, losing his gaze out the window and his hand on his rear. With the way he preened and blinked his eyes in the sunlight, Dean reminded himself of a cat. A sunbeam-searching, laze-loving cat. But what was a cat without someone to pet it?

He shifted around again and rubbed the bed enticingly.

“C’mon, Cas. Lay with me.”

Castiel emerged from his alcove of darkness, his hair almost indiscernible from it, and shot his consort a wary glance before pressing their bare skin together.

“I hope you understand what I am braving, just so your craving for ‘cuddles’ can be quelled,” he said, more grumpy than he truthfully was.

“Mild sunburn?” asked Dean with a roll of his eyes. “I can make that better.”

“Knowing you can is what helps me brave it.”

Castiel slithered into the centre, hissing when the crack of light branded a line on his torso.

Dean watched for a moment, transfixed by the steam that rose from the vampire’s pores. He kissed where the line of light guided him, popping one on Castiel’s lips between every few to distract him from the discomfort. Still, even with Dean’s kisses, it burnt a long, pink rod (longer and pinker [and far thinner] than _Castiel’s_ rod) on his torso, spanning from his collarbone to his hip. When the line became as red as blood, that’s when Dean offered his. He crawled on top of Castiel, protecting him from the sun, and bared his neck with a loll of his head.

The tease of teeth on his pulse wasn’t a threat – it never had been. It was a tantalising tickle, a tincture of temptation, and a toying titillation. It was Castiel’s way of playing with his food before he _played_ with his food. He licked Dean’s throat before scraping his fangs across it, which always elicited the kind of shiver in Dean that made only the whites of his eyes show, and kissed it once, twice, three times before he found the healed over bite from last night.

Castiel sunk into his breakfast, only lapping up the blood he needed to heal himself from his mild sunburn. And with Dean draped over him, healing his back with the very sunlight that harmed his vampire, he didn’t need all that much.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, the sound strange through teeth and against skin.

“Me or my blood?” a blissful Dean asked.

“Both.”

Castiel reached for something on the side—what it was, Dean was too preoccupied to care—and the blinds descended as both their cocks ascended to the heaven of hardness.

As soon as the room was blacked out, Castiel pounced on his consort, his mouth never leaving the warm trickle at his consort’s neck, and rutted their hips together. Dean moaned, both in pleasure and dissatisfaction, because he couldn’t see anything. It wasn’t as if he was just closing his eyes and pulling on Castiel’s hair whilst he was bitten, no; Dean was completely blind to Castiel’s content feeding face and Castiel’s sensitised little shivers and Castiel’s adorable ass wiggles. Reluctantly, he pushed Castiel off and jumped out of bed before he could be pulled back in. Abandoning ship (albeit temporarily) was something Dean could only do in lights like this, when it was pitch black. Castiel’s hands were nowhere near as strong as Castiel’s pleading baby blues.

He felt around for the matchbox in the bedside drawers, fumbling past odd socks, dildos, screws, and other objects that didn’t belong together, and lit a match after a few clumsy attempts. Holding the flame to his features, Dean sexily crossed his eyes and sucked his cheeks in. An utterly amused Castiel laughed when Dean was too busy pulling faces to take note of how close the flame was to his finger and thumb. Sucking air through his teeth, Dean shook the heat off his hand, and proceeded to light another match.

“Remember fire safety, Dean,” chastised Castiel.

Dean scoffed. “Oh yeah, I’ll be _real_ sure to think of fire safety when I’m lighting a million candles in one room.”

“Unscented candles?” asked Castiel, hopeful. After Dean nodded, he continued, “Good. Your scent is the only one I need.”

Cupping another flame on another match, Dean turned around with a raised eyebrow and remarked, “You _need_ it, huh?”

“You know that I do.”

“What else do you need?”

They’d had this conversation hundreds of times before, and each time Castiel would indulge Dean. It was their verbal foreplay.

“Your company. Your presence. Your warmth, your laughter, your _ass_ , your love, and… your blood.”

“Damn right you need all that.”

“One day,” started a thoughtful Castiel, stock still whilst gazed at his consort with intent, “I shall make you list the ways you need me.”

“Pssh. Like I need you.”

Castiel cocked his head to the side. “That’s not what you were saying—no, _screaming_ —last night.”

“You got me,” said a smirking Dean, his hands up.

Once the room was throbbing with a waxy glow, Dean took pause for a moment and watched the vampire he needed so. Castiel was caught in a moment on his own, dabbing the corners of his rufescent lips with a thumb. The flames danced across his face, and their reflection in his bunsen-blue eyes revealed their age. There may have been a four-hundred year age gap, but it certainly didn’t show when Castiel outran Dean, or when Dean had to teach Castiel how to cook, or when they made love.

* * *

 

_Then_

 

Dean only noticed him because he was shivering in an unseasonably warm April.

If the man hadn’t been shivering, Dean would have walked on by, most likely to the next store he would get a five finger discount from. He was below Dean’s eyeline, almost laying on the sidewalk, swathed in a huge hoodie and baggy jeans, and being unremarkable in general, but his teeth were chattering, and the cuffs of his hoodie were in his fists. He was cold, and out of it, and Dean had only been in his position a year ago. And just because no one came along to be his good samaritan, Dean decided to become this man’s angel.

He strode over with a swagger (he had to, or what usually happened to underage homeless kids might happen to him too) and bent down to look the man in his dark, bloodshot eyes.

“You need a place to stay?”

The man nodded as fervently as he could for someone in his weak state, and Dean took him home.

Dean said ‘home’, but it wasn’t warm, or cosy, and it didn’t have any of his family living within its walls. It was a cave, dank and dark and damp. It was a squalor, but it was hidden on the end of a back row, on the outskirts of town where concrete met grass. Dean had to walk an extra few miles to get to where he wanted, but if that was the price he had to pay for shelter away from prying, preying eyes, then so be it.

Weeds and thorns swallowed the _For Sale_ signs forgotten by estate agents over the years, and they were just part of the garden now, like the bottles and cans and chip packets that had found their way there. One day, Dean promised himself every time he walked up the wonky stone path, one day he’d do the place up. Make it fancy and habitable.

He counted himself the luckiest homeless sixteen year old in the world that he’d managed to find a secluded, two-storey house. Like he’d found the man, he only found the house because he’d been walking around in the area, looking for squatters who would take him in. Instead, the house took Dean in like it had been waiting for him. The floorboards creaked affectionately at the tiptoe of his feet, and the ragged curtains twitched towards him, curious of what hands would draw them.

Walking around the rooms, Dean had almost heard it begging to be made a home. He saw visions that looked a lot like memories, of a family inhabiting the house. Someone leaned in a door frame while their partner lay in bed, waiting. Small footsteps ran through the corridors, and giggles echoed off the walls. In the lounge Dean was beckoned to the couch to watch TV, but when he blinked, there was just a flea ridden chair and a broken TV set.

Dean liked to think that the house wasn’t so much taunting him as it was showing him possibility.

He wondered how the house would take to the man.

Halfway home, when the guy had tripped for the umpteenth time and Dean was in danger of becoming best friends with the sidewalk, a shopping cart was sent down from the heavens and into a nearby ditch, so Dean heaved the man into it and wheeled him the rest of the way. He chatted occasionally, just mundane things to waste the oxygen, like:

“I’m Dean, by the way. You try any funny business an’ I’ll knife you.”

“Where I live – It ain’t a palace, but it’s where I lay my hat, and all.”

“Man, you gotta have some fair skin. I bet you’d burn with factor fifty.”

“Almost there. Don’t go fallin’ asleep, Mr Comatose.”

“Aaaaaand we’re here. Lemme help you outta that cart.”

He became a crutch as he thought, _I gotta teach myself to garden one day,_ and eased the man up the stairs. What with the extra weight, Dean didn’t know if they’d even make it to the top. The wood beneath them splintered into the soles of his boots, and when the man stumbled, he thought they were goners, but the house had grown too fond of Dean to let its staircase sacrifice him.

As soon as they made it to the bedroom, the man scrambled away from Dean and wrapped himself up in the blankets. Not an eyelid batted, and Dean searched the rooms for the other mattress he had lying around somewhere. He could use if for as long as the dude stayed.

The following morning, Dean checked on him. He was still swaddled in blankets and sound asleep, at least that’s all Dean could see in the dark. The boards Dean had taken off the window had been replaced, which was somewhat irksome, but he shrugged it off. Everyone had a reason for everything they did. The boards weren’t a ‘just because’.

Dean sniffed the air and made a face. It smelt ripe. As soon as the guy woke up, Dean was pushing him into the bath and washing him off. He’d let him do it himself, but Dean had a feeling that he’d take to the water like a cat. Back when he lived in shelters, he knew guys who would go as long as possible without showering. They’d fallen out of the habit, sometimes didn’t even _want_ to get back into it. They’d gone so long coping like they were in medieval England they didn’t want to go all Marty Mcfly. Dean didn’t want to end up like that – just one of the reasons he’d left. Staying there was like peering through a fortune-telling kaleidoscope.

He boiled saucepans of water on the few hot plates he’d accumulated over the months and poured them into the bath. It took half an hour to get the water to an acceptable level, and by that time he heard movement from the bedroom.

Popping his head round, he whispered, “I ran a bath for you. Well. Boiled water. I’ve got no running water. Should’ve cooled down enough to sit in now.”

The blankets nodded, and Dean waited in the bathroom.

The man stared at him when he walked in, his face the embodiment of a crossword puzzle one word short of finishing. Seeing as he was set on not speaking, Dean sighed and explained.

“I don’t trust you enough to be in here on your own. There’s bleach and razors and shit.”

That got an eyebrow raise, but the man undressed all the same. Dean made a point of looking him in the eye.

He sat in the corner while the man washed, glancing at him in his periphery. At least he didn’t have to worry about the man being one of those lacking hygiene. The man cupped the water in his hands and relished in letting it spill over his body, which looked paler than it should have been. He seemed as if he was in utter bliss though, and it was fascinating to watch. Not that Dean was watching. Because if Dean _was_ watching, he’d have seen the bite imprints and scabs on the man’s skin and recommended tetanus shots.

“You should get tetanus shots for those.”

Alright, so Dean _was_ watching.

The bottom of the bath squeaked as the man adjusted to face him.

“For your bites. What are those, from a chihuahua?”

Dean squinted at them, hoping to gain magnified vision, but it did not happen. So instead he tentatively crawled closer, ignoring the _‘what the heck is five across’_ face the guy was making again, and inspected the bites further.

They were not from a chihuahua. They were perfectly formed bites from something with pinprick teeth. Dean hadn’t seen the inside of the man’s mouth, so it was perfectly natural to leap to the conclusion that he’d never had a job that came with a dental plan. No wonder he never wanted to talk if he could. Dude had seriously fucked up teeth.

Which gave Dean an idea for a name.

He sucked his lips in and fetched the antiseptic. Gaining Jaws’s _(Like in the Bond movies. He was fucking cool, man)_ temporary trust with a long stare, he rubbed it into all the bites and let it sit for a while. Dean sat back in the corner, and Jaws laid back in the tub, his eyes closed. If he were fifteen years younger, Dean reckoned they would have bonded over the subject of being jailbait twinks. He had that look about him. High cheekbones, bright blue eyes, thick lips, and a lithe body. Unfortunately, Jaws wasn’t fifteen years younger, and Dean was a jailbait twink all on his own.

Somehow, he didn’t think Jaws would take advantage of that fact. But, Dean’s guard always had to be up. It was always the quiet ones, they said. Whoever _they_ were.

When Jaws was finished in the bath, Dean held up a towel for him, and in doing so snagged his hand on the nail it’d been hanging from. It bled onto the white—well, grey, really, from the various purposes Dean used it for—towel, and Jaws’s pupils blew.

“Shit,” Dean muttered, sucking the cut. Dude was probably a haemophobe. Before he got the chance to apologise and offer the dirtier but blood-free towel, Jaws ran out of the bathroom and locked himself in another room. But hey, it wasn’t Dean’s room, so he shrugged and drained the tub.

There was just enough bread left for a couple PB&J sandwiches, so Dean creaked around the house like he was coaxing a wild animal out so he could housetrain it.

“Ja—” No, he couldn’t actually call the guy that out loud. “Guy! I made you a sandwich! You hungry?”

Jaws appeared in the dining room at the head of the table, seemingly housetrained already. And dressed, oddly enough. Dean slid the plate in front of him, and then took his place at the other end. The table was long, long enough to fit twelve around it, and eating at it was like sneaking into _Downton Abbey_ and pretending to be a kitchen boy who had high hopes.

A moan was heard over the dusty candelabras (they had no worth, according to the guy at the pawn shop), and Dean choked on his bite. Well, if PB&J was all it took to get a sound out of the guy, what would a good steak get?

Jaws rubbed his belly like he was full, but there was still a hunger about him. Showing him around the bare cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, Dean told him to write down what he wanted to eat or drink. Dean would steal anything within reason.

By the time Dean got back from the store with his pockets full, Jaw had retired to the bedroom Dean slept in the previous night. Probably something to do with giving him his room back, Dean guessed.

The towel was still missing from the bloody nail.

* * *

 A looming figure startled Dean awake.

“Please. I need it,” Jaws said.

They were the first words Dean heard from his mouth. They came packaged in torn, brown paper, and filtered through a rattling exhaust pipe.

“What?” Dean rubbed his eyes. “You want food? Water?”

Jaws paled even more so in the moonlight, and his face was expressionless as he answered, “Your blood.”

It was too early for crazy.

“Fuck off.”

Dean promptly pretended to go back to sleep, and during the ten minutes it took before Jaws stopped whining from the back of his throat and left, every muscle in Dean’s body was stiff. Every muscle waited, prepared to fight off an attack. Every muscle was reluctant to prove Dean’s gut wrong, but too protective to risk anything else. Thankfully, every muscle could relax.

That didn’t mean that Dean slept well, however. He tossed and turned and woke up in cold sweats four times after dreaming of fangs. Most likely Jaws was crazy and not a vampire, but in the case that it was vice versa, Dean deliberately pondered the existence of vampires.

If they were real, did they suck blood up through their fangs or bite with their fangs and lap up the blood with their tongues?

If they were real, did they sleep in coffins or not at all?

If they were real, did they shy from sunlight or sparkle in it?

He resolved himself to ask Jaws at breakfast. If he was crazy, he’d indulge Dean and Dean could return the favour by dropping him off at the shelter, but if he was actually a vampire, he’d probably make Dean his breakfast and that would be that.

A solid plan, really.

The sun rose faster than ever before, and if that wasn’t motivation to figure out whether Jaws wanted to drain him, Dean didn’t know what was. It was also a chance to see his reaction to sunlight.

Dean rapped on the door. “Breakfast, twilight!” (It was too good to resist.)

Jaws came down to the dining room in a hoodie, a blanket, and with the stance of a man much smaller. Before he sat at the other end of the table where his breakfast lay (bread scorched over a lighter), he gestured for Dean to stand so they were at the same eye level, and gazed woefully while he spoke.

“Last night. I apologise for my behaviour.”

“Okay,” Dean replied. He did not accept or reject the apology. Instead, he said, “Vampire, huh?” and bit into his toast for emphasis.

Jaws nodded, but didn’t sit down. “Would you like to see my teeth?”

Oh, this would be priceless. Jaws would probably draw back his lips and hiss like a cartoony Dracula, and then suddenly dissolve into a Transylvanian accent and—

_Holy shit._

Jaws had teeth, alright. Great big pointy needly ones that came out of his gums.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathed.

Smirking and sitting down, Jaws dug into his breakfast with vigour, answering Dean’s questions between bites.

No, they did not sleep in coffins.

They bit their prey and lapped up the blood.

Yes, sunlight affected them, but only in the form of sunburn.

Yes, they can have garlic, but he’s not fond of it.

They could probably be killed with a stake if it was sharp and deep enough.

Dean bombarded him with questions for the entire day, making Castiel (apparently back in the day it was a fad to name your children after random angels) tell him stories about his life, and why he ended up on the streets, but all Castiel told him of the latter was that he had a ‘disagreement’ with his nest.

Whatever. Castiel would tell him eventually. Dean was good at getting information, breaking people down until they told him what he wanted to know. It was part of the reason his dad wanted him to join the army.

And then came the big question. One he didn’t see a reason to why Castiel would duck it. One he could help with, if he felt brave enough.

“So how are you dealing with going sober?”

The bags under Castiel’s eyes seemed to turn as indigo as the night sky in a split second. “Not well. I need to feed, soon, or I will die.”

“What about feeding from animals?” asked Dean. There were no lack of strays around.

“I was before, but I... I got sick,” Castiel answered with a great sadness about him, like it killed him more to feed from animals than not to feed at all. He struck Dean as the animal-loving type.

A surge of bravery coursed through Dean’s blood, something he hoped would be to the vampire’s taste.

“What about feeding from me? But not, like, draining me?”

Castiel looked at him for what felt like hours. “That would of course be amenable, Dean, but why?”

 _Why_ was a heavy question. It was like being given an anvil and then ordered to run up a flight of stairs with it. Answering _why_ was like being dropped in the centre of a labyrinth with no map. It was like delving further and further into the sea, with a curiosity for what was in its depths and a negligence for breath.

Dean wasn’t strong enough for any of those tasks. Not yet. So, he shrugged half-heartedly and gave a rudimentary answer:

“Just seems like the right thing to do, ‘s’all.”

He was eyed like a blank sudoku in a doctor’s office magazine, and Dean decided to skip the puzzle pages in the paper for a week or two.

“You would let me feed from you,” Castiel began slowly, “because it seems like the ‘right thing to do’?” He did the bunny ear quotation marks too, which Dean thought was probably the cutest thing he’d see a grown man do.

Dean nodded, and Castiel nodded back, albeit slowly.

“How about now?” Dean offered.

Now was as good a time as any. It was mid afternoon, the sun was beating down through the cold clouds, and there was nothing much else to do. If Castiel weren’t here, Dean would probably just be reading.

Castiel nodded again, his lips glued shut. Maybe he had to restrain himself. Maybe Dean would have to force Castiel’s mouth off his neck once he’d had his feed. Maybe this was all a terrible idea and Dean was going to die.

He didn’t even know how it would work. Would Castiel actually want to feed from his neck, or would he rather Dean’s wrist, or Dean’s thigh? Would he want to do it on the couch, on the bed, or at the table?

Like he’d read Dean’s mind (was that a vampire superpower?), Castiel said, “I could feed from your wrist if it made you more comfortable.”

It would, it really would.

Dean held out his hand for the vampire to lead him to whatever place he had in mind, but instead Castiel took it and knelt before him.

At the table it was, then.

He almost had to laugh. It was as if Castiel was a dog he was feeding scraps to.

Castiel stared up at Dean for consent, simultaneously easing his nerves with a soft smile and a mouthed _thank you._ Then, he sniffed the spot he thought best, licked his flat tongue over it, and moaned like it was the first PB &J sandwich he’d had in months.

“You smell divine, Dean. Like the back of a leather-strapped watch. It’s addictive.”

“Don’t get too addicted.”

“I won’t.”

Dean didn’t know if he believed him or not.

He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see Castiel’s fangs puncture his flesh. Dean always hated getting shots, actively avoided them in fact, until it was time to show his little brother that there was nothing to be scared of really, but this was unlike any shot Dean had had before.

It felt like fireworks exploding in his body. It was like the first time he discovered that touching in between his legs felt really, really good. It felt better than arguing with Sammy and actually being right. And Castiel must have thought it felt more than amazing too, because his hums were vibrating Dean’s arm from his shoulder to the tips of his tingly fingers, and when Dean took a peek through his lashes, the only puzzle his expression resembled was a completed cryptex. It was beautiful. Everything about them was beautiful. They were bonded by Dean’s blood, and—

Castiel pulled away.

“Wha… Why… Why’ja stop?”

A gulp; the sound of a fingernail drawn across skin; the stuttered start of a sentence – all heightened in the post-feeding state.

“I have enough to regain my strength for now. Thank you.” Castiel licked the bite to seal it, and held Dean’s hand for a few moments longer before kissing it. “Should you need care in any way, don’t hesitate to let me know. If you have questions, ask them.”

Dean’s vision was hazy and his groin throbbed, but he was fine. He was better, even, than before Cas bit him.

He dreamt of fangs again, but they were not nightmares.

* * *

 Castiel brought the missing towel to Dean the next day. He looked a lot like a dog who’d demolished a cupboard to get to his treats, and Dean figured out why when he saw no trace of blood on it.

“Did you…?” an incredulous Dean started, trailing off when Castiel nodded without meeting his eyes.

Backing away, Castiel said, “You have probably guessed, but I can’t open my mouth too often in fear of biting you, I am so weak. It’s why I ran away from you in the bathroom, and why I wouldn’t speak to you. I could easily kill you.”

“But you won’t, right?”

Castiel didn't answer.

“How ‘bout this – we get you healthy again, whatever that is for a vamp, and and in the meantime I'll be your happy meal. Sound good?”

It was as if Castiel was looking through the puzzle pages again, but he nodded all the same. All it did was bring Dean around to the question of why he was so willingly giving up his blood.

The first answer Dean came up with was, _well, I ain’t usin’ it for anything else (apart from living)._ The second was questionable: _He’ll die if I don’t, right? And that would make me a murderer._ The third was probably the most tedious of connections, but the answer that had the most truth in it.

_If I could’ve given my blood to Sammy, I would’ve._

* * *

 It started out slowly. Once a week, Castiel would take to Dean’s wrist like his life depended on it (which, Dean guessed, it did), and Dean would ignore the bulge in his pants. It was natural, Cas said, consort chemistry. Dean was too busy willing his erection away to ask Castiel to elaborate.

To pass the days, they talked, mostly. Castiel had an amazing set of listening ears, and seemed happier to hear Dean chat about his dream decor and his most wanted tattoos than talk about his past, which was endlessly interesting albeit murky. The most he got out of the vampire about the ‘disagreement’ was that it involved kidnapping cross country. At several points in his story telling, Dean brought up his little brother without specifying that he was his little brother. One day, the vampire edged closer and closer until he held Dean’s hand and asked who Sam was.

Maybe it was Castiel’s inquisitive, soft eyes as he asked, and maybe it was that someone had finally asked, but there and then, Dean cried for the first time since the first night he left home.

Castiel held Dean as he shook, and wiped his stupid little boy tears with a thumb.

He didn’t tell Castiel who Sam was that day. He slept in Cas’s arms, and it felt a lot like home.

Weeks passed, and he still hadn’t told Castiel ‘his story’, to put in in American Idol-ish. Dean still let him feed from him, and rolled his eyes when Castiel burnt the dinner, and huffed when Castiel suggested he meet people his age (“because seriously, who’s gonna wanna be friends with a homeless kid with no education?” he would ask. “You don’t have to bring them here as playdates, Dean. You can attend a club, discuss your interests. You love to talk about what you love with other people who love it too,” would always be Castiel’s retort).

One more week passed, and they were laying in the jungly garden, surrounded by weeds and dandelions when Dean told him the director’s cut.

“Sam’s my little brother.”

Castiel sat up and peered at Dean. The stare was so intense Dean might as well have been looking at a solar eclipse.

“He got sick, real sick, and only a blood transfusion could save him. Our mom was the one he got this super rare blood type from, but she died after he was born. Dad thought I had the same type, that I could save him, but I’m just damn regular O.”

Castiel nodded almost imperceptibly. Of course he knew.

“Luckily we found a donor, and Sam got better, but Dad didn’t. Some stuff happened, and I tried to make him happy by saying I was going to enlist, but I didn’t. And I ended up here.”

By way of reply, Castiel stroked the top of Dean’s head. It said everything he needed to hear, and he was grateful that Cas knew him enough to let him sit in silent relief for a while.

“Bite me?” he asked of Castiel.

Castiel dragged his fingers along Dean’s arm, but Dean shook his head.

“On my neck. Please.”

The ache in Dean’s heart was quickly replaced by a whelming pleasure when those crescent moons became blood moons. His neck was more sensitive, the bite more beautiful, and Dean allowed himself to moan through it.

On that sunny day, surrounded by overgrown flowers, Dean felt something close to happiness.

* * *

It quickly became a regular thing. A couple of times a week, Castiel would climb into Dean’s bed (with permission, of course) and sidle up to him to feed. It was a natural progression, and in return, Castiel somehow gradually filled the cupboards and furnished the house. There was a proper couch now, and a chair to go with it, and the mattress in Cas’s room had a frame. It wasn’t like he was Dean’s sugar daddy, because Dean held all the power. If he wanted the feeding to stop, it would, and Castiel would not cease buying things for Dean’s home. For their home.

The word ‘consort’ was bandied about more often. Castiel would whisper it before he sank his teeth in sometimes, and it would always send shivers down Dean’s spine. He had to get Castiel to explain what it meant, and was immensely satisfied with the answer. Being Castiel’s consort meant being the only one he drank from. It meant they were exclusive. It meant Dean was Castiel’s chosen one, the one to whom he belonged. That last one was a bit iffy in Dean’s standing as he belonged to no one, but Castiel understood. Castiel understood, and Castiel never implied Dean belonged to him again.

It was an unorthodox living situation, Dean gave it that. Add to the situation the fact that their dicks were both super eager whenever it happened, and he had himself one confusing life. He was homeless, but mostly not. He was food for his roommate, and also wildly attracted to him when so. He was the happiest he’d been in two years, and it was down to a vampire’s company.

Sure, he liked Cas, but he didn’t _like_ like Cas. He only wanted the guy’s dick in his ass every so often, like when he came home with something new for the kitchen, or when he smiled despite the redness on his cheeks. It wasn’t just a Bella Swan, oh-my-god-he’s-so-hot, I-love-it-when-he-watches-me-sleep kinda thing.

Although, sometimes Dean would fall asleep for a few seconds after he’d been fed from and wake up to see Castiel, propped up by an elbow, gazing at him with such a tenderness Dean had only seen on the faces of actors. It was sweet that they’d become fond of each other, but the silent ground rules Cas had set were clear: No kissing, no humping, no ejaculate, no hands below the waist.

The rules were stupid and Castiel was no fun.

The only time Dean was allowed to feel those baby pink lips on his skin was when he was being bitten. It wasn’t fair. Dean didn’t care that Castiel was thirty going on three hundred (or something like that), he only cared that he wasn’t being kissed when he needed it. And it was the only time he would need it too. Dean was fine with no kissing outside of feeding times. It would be like biting-with-benefits.

But unfortunately for Dean, Castiel wouldn’t have any of it. He would artfully dodge any attempt Dean made, combatting with frowns and the shake of his head.

Not even after a particularly hot and sweaty biting session would Castiel cave. Throughout it, Dean had taken to nipping him, a habit acquired from Castiel himself, and after the vampire sealed the holes with his fizzing spit (sexier than it sounded), Dean nipped all the way from his strong shoulders to his earlobes. Castiel never stopped him, instead enjoying it with parted red lips.

Dean nipped at Castiel’s jaw, and when his lustful gaze was met, he took his vampire’s scratchy face in his palms.

“Can I…?”

He leaned in until their lips were a whisper of a breadth apart, and felt Castiel’s words vibrate in the air between them.

“No.”

It was husky, pained, forced; like Castiel really meant yes.

Dean kissed him. It was blissful, like touching Heaven for half a second before being brought back to Earth by a pair of defibrillators.

Castiel’s hands were those defibrillators. He pushed Dean away, like he’d been doing mentally so much recently, and thundered, “Dean, I said _no._ ”

(But he didn’t wipe his mouth)

“Consorts are usually happy to offer their blood and nothing else. Well, technically because they’ve, more often than not, been brainwashed since childhood, but my point remains.”

“But I’m not like the other consorts,” said Dean, kneeling with his hands in his lap. In a moment of brutal honesty, he whispered, “I wanna give you everything.”

Castiel stroked the side of Dean’s cheek with the back of his hand. It was tender, but not intimate. At least, not until he kissed Dean’s temple and murmured, “I know.”

It took two weeks for Castiel to even touch him after that.

The vampire grew pale and barely opened his mouth in a reflection of the man Dean had only known as Jaws, and it broke Dean’s heart to see him punishing them both.

Dean went through cycles. He started out sad that Castiel would do that to himself for whatever reason, and moved onto anger, and boredom. It repeated many times over the two weeks, until finally boredom hit again, and utterly fed up of whatever point Castiel was making, Dean crawled into his bed and decided that no one got anything by not asking for it.

“Touch me?”

He got an instantaneous response.

“Where would you like me to touch you?”

Dean paused, his lips parted. “Oh, uh, you’re gonna do it.” That was easier than expected. He almost felt guilty that he’d caught Castiel at a ‘good’ time – good meaning weak.

“Of course. I will touch you anywhere within reason,” Castiel said obviously, as if he was reciting a script at a cold reading he’d already memorised.

“O-okay. Touch... Touch my face? Please? Just hold it.”

“Like this?”

Castiel’s hands rose to Dean’s cheeks. He caressed them with his thumbs, and brushed Dean’s jaw with the tips of his fingers.

Dean nodded, and his eyes fluttered close like the wings of sleepy butterflies. “Yeah, like that. And maybe – maybe stroke my hair? And my forehead. And around my eyes.”

Castiel chuckled. “My little touch-starved consort.”

Dean opened an eye. “It’s not funny.”

“No, no, it’s not. I apologise, Dean.” He also apologised by way of fulfilling Dean’s wishes and touching Dean’s hair, forehead, and eyes.

It was the most content Dean had felt in a long time. Usually with Castiel, it was about the blood and the sexual frustration that came with it, but this was... nice. It was better than dry-humping, that was for sure. As Castiel continued to caress Dean’s features, Dean realised how tired he was.

Somewhere between completely coherent and decidedly delirious, Dean begged in a small voice, “Just one kiss?”

“No,” came Castiel’s soft answer, but all the same, a seed was planted in Dean’s hair. A seed that would grow into an apple tree that would eventually bloom, and then grow fruit on its branches.

Dean would wait for the pickings or the windfall, and make a pie out of that seed.

* * *

 Later that week, Castiel was feeding from him again, but Dean could not wait any longer for what _he_ craved.

“Please, Cas, I need it,” he begged.

“What do you need?”

“You know what.”

Castiel glanced down to their rutting crotches and stared back at Dean blankly.

“No,” was all he said, and it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Dean grabbed two fistfuls of Castiel’s hair and pulled the vampire’s fangs from his neck. He half expected Castiel to be incensed by the sudden act of defiance and force his fangs into him again, but Castiel simply froze, wide-eyed, his lips parted and dark pink.

“I might be sixteen,” Dean started, his voice too controlled, “but I’m legal in the state. You don’t gotta worry about it.”

“It’s not about that. When I drink from you, your head is not clear. You would regret anything we did.”

“Then how come I want you even when you’re not feeding on me?”

“It’s simple,” shrugged Castiel. “You associate me with arousal. You’re confused, Dean, you don’t really want—“

Dean cut him off with a groan of irritation. “I’m _not_ confused. I _want_ you, Cas. I want to kiss you, I want you to kiss me, I want you to fuck me. Even without the blood. ‘Cause I’m startin’ to think I’m just blood to you.”

The silence nearly said it all, but Dean wanted Castiel to actually _say_ it.

“Well? Is that what it is? Am I just a live blood bank to you? Just food? Just a neck to suck?”

“No, not at all, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, huh? Don’t you want me? Don’t you—” Dean stumbled on his words, and so he would not trip again, he restarted his sentence in a tiny voice. “Don’t you love me, Cas?”

Castiel’s defences dropped upon hearing that small question, which made Dean wonder how strong they were to begin with.

“Dean, I – While it is true that I have grown to – have come to harness powerful feelings for you, I do not think yours are of your heart. They come from the manipulation of my bite, and the coercion of your endorphins. While I am sure you think your feelings are true, I am also sure that they are not.”

What right did a _vampire_ have to tell Dean how he felt? None of what he said made sense, until Dean read between the lines and heard what Cas was really saying. He heard it again and again, these guessed words that snatched the breath from his lungs, and wiped the tears that hadn’t appeared with the back of his hand.

“You think I have that syndrome, don’t you, the one where they fall in love with their kidnapper. Well I got news for you pal, I can walk away any time,” he thundered, his eyes narrowed.

The daggers Dean stared reached Castiel, who looked like he’d realised he’d put two identical numbers in a sudoku column after thinking he had completed it.

“Of course you—”

“And I’m gonna.”

Dean walked and walked and walked, leaving his beloved house (and his beloved) behind.

* * *

 They spent a whole year apart, and Dean would have been lying if he said he didn’t miss Castiel. Unfortunately, it only hurt more because he knew Cas thought he wouldn’t miss him.

Somehow, Dean got a job in a convenience store downstate in Rockingham. Initially he’d seen _Lawrence_ and the homesick little boy in his heart led him in that direction, but living in a county called Rockingham was too far good an opportunity to pass up a second time. He rented a tiny bedsit for lower than its worth because the landlord felt sorry for him, and he was just glad she didn’t force him to make up the rent some other way.

Mosquitos would bite him, and if he was in a sleepy state he would chastise them for stealing Castiel’s feed. If he wasn’t, he would slap them and wash their corpses off his hands like he was Lady Macbeth.

The work was okay. The people he worked with were nice enough, and the customers either never opened their traps or didn’t shut up.

He still missed Cas. He still wondered if Cas missed him, if he’d found some other teenager to feed from. Dean hoped not, but was very aware that Cas would not be around to miss him if it weren’t the case.

He missed being bitten. He missed the fireworks and the tingles and rushes. He missed the scrape of Castiel’s fangs, and feeling light headed after.

He missed Castiel almost as much as he missed Sam, and that’s what spurred him on to live a normal life. He could live without Sam, so he could live without Cas. Dean didn’t want to by any means, but he could, and that was the point.

When Sam was eighteen, that’s when he didn’t have to live without his little brother anymore. Maybe even when Dean was eighteen, if he got his life together and proved to the courts that their dad wasn’t fit for duty.

It was dry on the day that everything changed again. It hadn’t rained for three weeks, and the gardens without sprinklers were feeling it. It wasn’t particularly warm, and it wasn’t windy. It was as if the weather had just stopped. It was as if it was a warning.

Dean only noticed him because he’d been failing to trail him subtly for the past four blocks.

He chanced a look over his shoulder to see if he could take him. Probably not. Dude was burly with threateningly long curly hair, and looked like he had experience with kids like Dean.

Dean shuddered. His eyes darted from left to right. No escape. He felt for the switchblade he kept in his waistband, but it wasn’t there because _of course_ he’d left it at work to open a damn delivery.

Shit. Shit shit shit _fuck._

He turned a sharp corner and ran up the stoop to a house split into apartments, if the buzzers were anything to go by. Dean buzzed the first floor. Nothing. Burly guy was close enough for Dean to see the gleam in his grin.

Dean buzzed the second floor and prayed. The curls were bouncing with thinly-veiled glee.

Dean buzzed the third floor and waited. There was nothing to be done now and it was his own fault. He’d backed himself into a corner like the stupid kid he was, and he was going to pay.

“You’re even prettier up close,” a slimy voice said. “And – what’s that stink on you?” He gasped. “‘nother vamp got to you before me? Hey, look at me!”

Dude was a vampire. Shit. He’d probably drain Dean dry while he raped his lifeless body. Dean would rather die, oh God, but… What was that noise? Footsteps treaded near, and Dean almost pissed himself with relief. Someone was coming. Someone would let him in. Someone would—

“Hey! Lo— _oof._ ”

The footsteps hadn’t come from inside the building.

Dean dared to turn around, and was pinned with a stern blue gaze.

“ _Run,”_ Castiel commanded.

They jumped over the heaving body on the sidewalk (what Cas did to him Dean would never know and always be in awe of) and ran anywhere to nowhere until they keeled over, breathless.

As soon as Dean could speak between breaths, he demanded answers.

“Were you following me?” he asked, eyes flashing.

Castiel shook his head. “No, I was following the other vampire.” When Dean remained unconvinced, he added, “I scented him and his hunger back home, and feared he might have killed. And he could have,” he said pointedly.

Dean took ample pause before he asked, “So you really weren’t following me?”

“I promise you, I have respected your wishes until now. I only disrespected them because your humanity—or your life—was on the line.”

Alright. Dean could deal with that. It was either that, or come to terms with what could have happened if Castiel hadn’t arrived, his tarnished armour barely glinting in the sun.

He looked at Castiel, really _looked_ at him for the first time in a year. Cas didn’t look older, but that wasn’t to be expected. He looked pale as the moonlight again, though a pink stain was spilling onto the skin exposed to the sun, and he was gaunt. Dean reckoned if he hugged him, he might break a bone.

“You look sick,” he told Castiel though he probably didn’t need telling.

A weary scowl took residence on Castiel’s features. “You could have died, Dean, amongst other things. Of course I feel sick.”

“No, you _look_ sick. Like when-I-first-met-you, sick.”

“Oh.” Castiel gave a small shrug. “That would be the cows blood.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot off his head. “ _Cows blood?_ You’ve been feeding off cows? Is that even good for you?”

“It... quenches my thirst, but it doesn’t sate the hunger. Not like…”

 _Not like me,_ Dean finished.

To lighten the mood, he asked, “Do you… Do you wanna fuck the cows when you feed?”

Castiel laughed, something that sounded like rust and nails in a blender and the crunch of stale honeycomb. It sounded like the first laugh Castiel had laughed in a year.

“No, no, I don’t.”

There was a long pause in which their eyes met and forgot to part.

“I’ve missed you greatly,” Castiel said, plain and earnest like the trenchcoat he wore over his hoodie.

“Sure you didn’t just miss my blood?”

Dean meant for it to be heard as a joke, but there was too much bitterness in it for that.

“Of course I missed your blood, but I would have missed you even if there was no blood running through your veins.”

“Necrophile,” Dean muttered with a smirk. The sentiment was there, at least. “I’ve missed you too.”

“Are you sure you haven’t just missed my fangs?” echoed Castiel.

“Touche, Cas, touche... I still love you, though.”

Castiel seemed to breathe for the first time upon hearing those five little words, and let his smile reach his mouth as he said, “As I do you.”

“As you what me?” Dean repeated. If Cas didn’t say it, then he wouldn’t go back with him. If Cas didn’t tell him now, then he never would, and Dean would be doomed to live a short life as a consort to someone who didn’t care. If Cas didn’t—

“I love you, Dean Winchester. With every fang in my mouth, and with every beat of my undying heart, I love you.”

It was enough. Dean closed the gap between them by ninety percent, waiting for Cas to make the ten.

He did, and it was too chaste a kiss for two people who’d just professed their love for one another in Dean’s books, so he pulled Castiel further into his body by the strings of his hoodie, and let their tongues profess their love for each other too.

Castiel was blushing when their lips parted ways, but Dean wasn’t. He was planning their next rendezvous.

Their hands found each other, and their fingers threaded. Their heads butted so very gently, and their toes touched.

“I... I redecorated the house, the way you said you wanted it, just in case you came back. Would you like to see it?” It was the most nervous Dean had seen Castiel, and it was darn cute that it was just a kiss that did that. Dean would have to kiss him more often.

“Sure, Cas. Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

_Now_

 

And they’d stayed there ever since, in that dilapidated house Dean found quite by chance. Most the windows were still boarded up, and the front of the house looked as worn and crumbled as ever, to keep them hidden from the prying eyes belonging to those that were not each other.

Dean pounced on the bed, jogging his boyfriend out of his reverie, and Castiel retaliated by pouncing on him. He licked the bite at Dean’s neck, sealing the punctures with his saliva to stem the blood flow. After sucking on the red smeared above Dean’s skin and coaxing more red just below Dean’s skin, Castiel moved down to the places he’d marked the night before. Collarbone, collarbone, right pec, left nipple, hip, thigh, left buttock, right buttock, thigh, thigh, thigh. He bookmarked them with lovebites to return to later with more literal lovebites, and passed the time by filling his mouth with Dean’s moans. On more than one occasion, Castiel had told him that they was almost as delicious as his blood.

“Have I ever told you how much I entertain the thought of this tattoo?” he asked, circling Dean’s anti-possession tattoo with the pad of a finger, knowing full-well the answer having asked the question on many occasions. “I entertain it regularly: when you are at work, when you are sleeping, when we make love. It’s beautiful inkwork. So fitting for a beautiful man.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean replied, weaving _tell me again_ into the undertone of his words.

“I love how it keeps everyone but me out of your skin. Out of you. I love how it protects you from the evils of this world when I cannot. I love how it means you are mine.”

“Hey, you’re mine too. You got no one’s blood but mine runnin’ through your veins, and that counts for somethin’.”

“It counts for everything, Dean. Without it, I would not be with you now.”

They were both aware of where Castiel would be if Dean did not offer his neck. He’d be running from other monsters in Purgatory, the only thought in his mind the _what if_ of that boy letting him drink from him.

Dean replied with silent words of love against Castiel’s lips, and pulled him so close he couldn’t tell where his skin ended and Castiel’s began. It was the best kind of close. It was intimate, mingling breaths and sweat and heartbeats, and it was the kind of intimacy that begged Dean to fall in love all over again every time their lungs expanded for breath against each other’s bare chests.

Sometime after gentle kisses, gung-ho kisses, and gasping-for-air kisses, Dean started the well-trodden path down Castiel’s body, nipping here and there for he had never known love without bites. Castiel’s hands followed him down, lovers of intimacy themselves, and stroked all the skin they could seek.

Enough was enough. Dean never needed much coaxing to get _in the mood,_ especially when it was Castiel doing the coaxing. He shifted his ass and spread his legs, and nudged Cas lower. Cas smirked and let himself be jostled around.

Vampires survived by sucking, and that always bled into his oral skills, though he retracted his fangs. And Dean always thought he demonstrated great willpower, what with the colour that his cock flushed when aroused.

He tugged Cas up by his hair and tasted himself on Cas’s lips while Cas’s fingers searched for something to slick the way into Dean’s ass. Having Cas in his ass was like eating a rich chocolate cake; it was so good his stomach thanked him, and sometimes it was nearly too rich to finish, but he reaped the rewards when he did.

A finger traced around his hole, and Dean pushed back on it, hoping Castiel wasn’t in a teasing mood.

Two fingers tickled his prostate, and Dean longed for something longer.

A lick, more lube, three fingers, and ten minutes of teasing later, Cas’s dick was stroking in and out while he fed from Dean’s nipple.

It was too much. He couldn’t finish, he couldn’t – but then he did, and the dick in his ass slid out with the force of it. Cas laughed and his rich kisses calmed Dean from one of the best orgasms of his life (a regular occurrence, and just another day for Castiel) before he replaced his mouth with the tip of his dick and finished seconds later.

The post-coital routine for Dean and Castiel was identical to their post-feeding routine. Dean would drift in and out of consciousness for a while, weighing up which side he would rather stay on that day, and Castiel would lick his way around the mess they’d both made.

So while Castiel finished suckling on the blood of Dean’s chest, Dean’s scales dropped heavy on wakefulness, and he scooped up the come around his mouth, swallowing it with a contented smile.

“You could quite easily be a come-sucking vampire, Dean,” Castiel said, clotting the blood with a kiss.

Dean’s smile grew contenter. “Then _you’d_ be _my_ consort.”

“I would be very happy with that. Regardless of whose consort is whose, we would be together.”

As much as Dean’s heart beat faster at that, it couldn’t help but remind its owner that it was on borrowed time. How long would _together_ last once wrinkles burrowed in Dean’s features and gravity added weights to his skin?

“...Dean?”

“Just thinkin’ ‘bout the future. About us.”

Castiel waited patiently for the elaboration Dean was deliberating.

He deliberated no longer. “Will you still want me when I’m older? And I don’t mean like, when I’m thirty, older, I mean when I’m sixty, older.”

“Yes.”

“Even though people are gonna think I’m your dad?”

Castiel shrugged. “Age does not matter to me.”

“It matters to me,” Dean muttered. “And I don’t wanna die on you, either. Am I even gonna last til I’m sixty? Will I be drained dry by then?”

“I’ll conserve your blood.”

Dean sighed. “That’s not the point, Cas.”

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” asked Castiel with a cock of his head.

“Can you blame me?”

Castiel thought for a moment before offering, “If you like, I could turn you, and we could be mates.”

A screwball hit Dean _smack_ in the face. “Blood is kinda... blegh.”

“You wouldn’t think so if you had the hunger.”

Sensing Dean’s reeling tether, Castiel started listing off the possible way to stem his ageing. Nearly all of them involved a transformation, and Dean rejected them on the premise that he was _very happy being human, thank you very much._ However, Castiel had saved his trump for the last round.

“What if we found a witch and persuaded her to perform a spell on you?”

“Witches exist?” Dean couldn’t help himself from exclaiming.

Castiel nodded with fervour. “I happen to know one.”

A spell would do, Dean thought. It was passive enough to pass through his tattoo, and meant staying as someone who didn’t need to consume anything but pie to survive.

“Then it’s settled?” Cas checked. When Dean grinned, he confirmed with wonder, “Witches.”

“Witches,” Dean repeated.

Yeah, he liked that idea. As long as Castiel was alive, Dean’s age would be frozen at whatever they chose. They would be together forever, regardless of species.

Together forever. Dean liked that idea too.

Now, on principle, Dean didn’t like to label himself. Pansexual? Sure, he wanted to bone a lot of people, regardless of gender (or species). Perfectionist? His house, no longer a squat, was immaculate and his cooking was ace, but that didn’t mean anything. Hopeless romantic? Whatever, he liked big gestures and small gestures and anything in between that implied love. However, in that moment, Dean found the label maker that was hidden away at the back of his mind and slapped himself with a sticky label that announced ‘Big ol’ sap’.

“Y’know… If were gonna be together forever, we might as well make it official, right?”

“Dean Winchester… Are you implying what I think you’re implying?”

Castiel smiled like a kid on Christmas Day, and Dean nodded.

A hard kiss landed on Dean’s lips, and Cas was beaming brighter when he opened his eyes. “Yes. Yes, let’s make it official. I have a tie around here somewhere…”

Dean laughed as Castiel launched himself bare-assed off the bed in search of something to bind them while they said their vows. He rifled through the drawers until he came across the one with all the odds and sods in it, and pulled a blue tie from the back. Jumping back on the bed, he couldn’t help himself from kissing Dean once more before they were bonded for life. They almost got side-tracked by their own kisses again, but Dean laughed into one and pushed his husband-to-be off his chest.

“Come on, let’s do this,” he encouraged, eyes twinkling like fairy lights.

Castiel laughed a little more. “How romantic.”

He held out his hand for holding, which Dean gladly took. Then, as carefully and slowly as he let himself fall in love with his consort, Castiel wound the tie around the first place he bit Dean, and then his own wrist too.

“Do you take me, Castiel, to be your wedded vampire?” The spherical seas of Castiel’s eyes were perfectly calm, yet they spilled a drop onto his cheek.

Dean kissed it away. “I do. And do you take me, Dean, to be your wedded consort?”

“I do.”

“And so we are bound for life,” Castiel finished.

He concluded their makeshift rite with a ceremonial bite between Dean’s neck and shoulder, and they layed in bed, their hands still clasped as they made the all important calls. Castiel called his witch friend to organise an appointment, and Dean called Sammy, to tell him the good news.

Once the appointment had been made, and a double date had been arranged with Sam and his fiancee, they snuggled down under the covers and exchanged hot breaths, lazy kisses, and loving nips.

They had forever to do whatever, and Dean couldn’t wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the piece that I wrote during my horrid writer's block, and I'm a little nervous about it, so please leave kudos/comments if you liked it! :)


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